Chasing a Fabricated Friend
by rithie
Summary: *Spoilers*


The evening John lost Sherlock, he also lost himself. This loss was too much for him. How could he live without his consulting detective pal? How will he wake up knowing his flatmate is not there? How will the days go by without Sherlock? His highly curious chum merely vanished. Without Sherlock to play the mystery game, John's interest in things became solemnly low. When murder stories would come up on the news, John would whisper "That sounds like something Sherlock would be interested in." or "Sherlock could find the murderer before this report even ends!" Sherlock was the best detective in London. No one other than his brother, Mycroft, could match up to him. Even the police asked him for assistance on puzzling cases. To be the Master of Deduction was to read the world like an open book. Locked away in his mind palace, Sherlock could solve anything. Not one detail could escape Sherlock's sight.

John's head was flowing with images and memories of his partner. The sight of Sherlock's short curly black hair; his striking high cheekbones were all engraved into the back of his eyes. In Sherlock's closet, button downed shirts of neutral hues and simplistic styles occupied the spaces. Every piece was devoid of warm colors; nothing too flashy. He didn't even like the hat yet the public loved it. His bed, the walls, furniture, all Sherlock's belongings just made John more depressed yet he couldn't throw any of it out. He couldn't even move out of the building. Not only for economical purposes but he just didn't have it in him. And how could he find another flatmate. No one could replace Sherlock. No one but Sherlock. When he read the front of their flat, 221b, he remembered the first time they met. An old friend had introduced him to John. He needed a flatmate. Sherlock needed a flatmate. What a perfect coincidence.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker's Street." Sherlock clicked his tongue, finishing their first meeting and leaving the curious John bewildered. He should have never accepted the offer, thought John. He was a complete stranger yet for some reason John trusted him. Oh how he so easily guessed John's entire background within a few minutes. From a veteran war doctor to his close family, John's private life was mapped out in his brain without a word from John's mouth or a hint from a friend. All by himself.

John quickly adapted to the eccentric lifestyle with Sherlock. He was comfortable,  
which was surprising coming from a war veteran. Now that routine melted with the memories. The memories kept repeating over and over with specific detail. Subconsciously, Sherlock would twiddle with any object in his hands. Ecstatically, Sherlock transformed into a little child in a toy store when he found an enjoyable mystery. Walking down the street was like looking through an album of memories.  
Familiar faces passed by. Past murder scenes came and went. London was drenched in Sherlock's scent. Even simple objects produced arbitrary Sherlock vibes. When he heard a violin he thought Sherlock was playing; the violin that Sherlock would play every time he intently thought. When he saw body parts around the morgue he thought they would be perfect presents for Sherlock to experiment on. Seeing  
human eyes in a jar become a normal everyday sight. Not one thing failed to remind John of Sherlock. Eventually, everything reminded him of Sherlock. Every inch of London was Sherlock infested.

As a last result he decided to visit his therapist for the first time in months. Losing Sherlock was like losing a brother. It would be difficult to cope with this single-handedly. A white cable knit sweater, washed out jeans and brown old shoes completed his old man look. Talking was awkward. No appointment in months means an abundance to talk about but there was no easy way to start this. But there was no one he could run to. Run from this painful past event. His soul was dying away. But to no avail, the methods from the doctor did not fix his hole in his heart. A trip, maybe, to the café shouldn't hurt, he suggested.

Usual coffee, unusual loneliness. John was seated alone in a corner adding milk and sugar to his coffee. Coffee. He would have coffee with Sherlock in their flat every morning. There were two types of Sherlock in the morning. One was dazed and unconventional due to 3 hours of sleep and surviving off of coffee and nicotine patches. The other was well rested and prepared to advance through the day. They would talk about recent possible cases to solve and about how everything needs more excitement. _Slurp_. Loneliness tastes bitter. Across the café, two waitresses giggled in secret at the middle-aged man eating alone. "Oh my god, it's like the alone old man posts I see all the time on Tumblr. All his friends are probably dead," gossips one. "I can't even", exclaims the other. "Just stop. I'm so done with you." Unaware to the situation, John couldn't hear them for his mind was set on alternate anti-depression methods.

The café didn't help John that much. He decided to take a brief walk down the streets and then go home. On the way to the flat, John saw a familiar face. It was Mike Stamford. He and John used to go to medical school together at St Bartholomew's Hospital. Mike also introduced John to Sherlock. They sometimes still go drinking but John doesn't think alcohol will help right now. It would probably create a much worse headache than now. John caught up to his slow friend. He suggested they meet up at the park tomorrow afternoon. He agreed and went on his way.

The next day, John met up with his old friend in the park. Delightful children were playing catch. Happy people walked their friendly dogs. Singing in the trees were pleasant birds. Not a single cloud was in the sky. The scenery was all too blissful for the thoughts in John's mind. Next to him on the bench was his old colleague, Mike Stamford. He was snacking on some sweet potato wedges. John was contemplating on his bypassing future.

"Want a sweet potato?" offered his friend.

"Potatoes are not going to help me."

"Well then what did you want to talk about?"

"What am I going to do with my life? Sherlock seemed like the next big chapter in my life. He was going to end the boring and wearisome life I had after the military. Now he's gone already. "

"Move on. What else is there to do?"

"I guess that is the inevitable answer."

"John, we all have our losses in life. Sherlock, my wife, it is all part of life. Please, overcome this rock in your life. If you do that, your distress will pop slowly like a clump of bubbles."

His friend's word sank into John's deepest thoughts. _Munch. Chomp._ The timeworn men sat on the bench in a subdued manner. One was thinking profound thought provoking questions. The other was deciding what he should have for dinner.

"We're getting old aren't we? Oh bugger. Our middle-aged years are almost over" sighed John.

"Well it doesn't have to be a bad thing."

"I suppose so"

"You've lived some special events. Maybe it's time to settle down."

"It's just that, it's been so long, so long that I've felt that excitement. The excitement of the war, it was easily duplicated when I was solving mysteries with Sherlock. I want to feel it again."

"I'm sorry John but some good things never last."

Night time was falling and John said his goodbyes and departed with his friend. When John got home, he turned on his laptop to read up on the recent news. Maybe he can update his blog. The first news website subtly mentioned Sherlock's death with a small box on the side of the page. John tried to ignore it but it was on every page he clicked on. It followed him everywhere until he decided to try another website. Alas there was an article about Sherlock and his legends through John's blog. He tried another. Soon every website mentioned Sherlock's death in one way or another. John then proceeds to his blog. His message box was filled with people asking about Sherlock. John abruptly closed his computer and set it aside. It was impossible to escape this tragedy.

Days changed to weeks and John's interest in this world decreases by the second. As a result, he began to fabricate a little fake world; a world where Sherlock was still talking slyly, walking like he's the king of the world, breathing,_ living_. The little details about Sherlock were all etched into John's head. His low toned voice, his rough skin, his cyan eyes, dark brown hair, straight forward walking pattern, how could he ever forget? Sherlock would tower over John whenever they stood adjacent to each other. It made Sherlock look taller. Each one of these things added to the imaginary Sherlock that John whipped up; the imaginary me.

The first month, as you can imagine, internally destroyed John from the inside. He believed I was still here. I would spend the time dawdling around the flat while John sat in his corners reading newspapers, articles, mysteries. He started a thick collection. Piles of clippings towered high to the ceilings. Maps, roadways, pictures, and articles decorated the walls around him. He is always backed up in corners. It's his new thing, similar to my mind palace. He keeps repeating deductions I've taught him about. I almost wish I just kept my big mouth shut. All those facts are just poisoning him.

The following week in the apartment was god awful. John was suffering and I couldn't do anything about it. And I just sat and watched. "Sherlock, how do you feel about the slasher case? It's a dead end and we don't have any more information on the killer's method." Silence filled in my response. In his own little world, John could hear a forged response from me. An afflicted John admitted, "I'm not a hero like you. I can't help people like you. I can't even help myself." He would constantly burst into sentimental emotional states such as these. A part of me wanted to slap him yet I couldn't. I wanted to hug him, to help him, to tell him it's ok. John was suffering a brain freeze from this memory milkshake.

I examined as John paces up and down the ends of our flat on a daily basis. "Sherlock, Sherlock, what would Sherlock do? What would Sherlock say? Oh Sherlock where are you? "He mutters these questions to himself day in and day out. John hasn't been outside in weeks. Seeing him like that, it's truly a sight you'd never forget. It leaves an impact on my heart. I'm afraid he is going insane. I cannot help him nor save him from my current position. John is scared. And I cannot do anything. The least I can do is follow him as he's progresses and guide him through hardships. Hopefully it will pass. But at this rate, I predict it will worsen...

Over this time, my closet has been filled with dust and such; untouched and unused for anything except for the harbor of dust bunnies. Except, I don't believe they qualify for small little bunnies anymore; they are much bigger, more like dust giraffes or the like. My belonging still remain in my where they had been months ago. John had refused to throw any of it out. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, keeps insisting he rid of it. Donate it maybe. It has so many other uses other than collecting dust. My clothing doesn't really fit John anyway. He's more sweaters and plaid shirts, more comfortable Clothes. I mostly have tightfitting button downed shirts. All of his clothes must be worn out by now. And because of his recession, he won't be going shopping in a while. Why can't he just let go of me and do something for himself?

John cannot see me but I can see him. I don't know if this is from being a figment of John's crazed imagination or if I am actually a ghost. This is absurd. Ghosts do not exist. John must have created me from his dreams. Although despite what has happened, I have been able to use ghostlike abilities to grasp John's attention. Writing vague messages on the walls, giving cold chills in the air, I know that John must sense my presence in the room. Other abilities have showed up as well. Phasing through walls, teleportation, I was proficiently capable to execute all the traditional customs. My only concern is that I believe any contact with John will only make it worse for his mental status. Most people will be frightened if they encounter a ghost. John might sink into a level where we can't save him.  
When I go to touch something, my hand goes right through, as I experienced when trying to put my hand on John's shoulders. I can't grab anything nor can anything can contain me. I'm not sure if I like this. It's a different experience I must try to become accustomed to one step at a time. The marks I leave on the walls are either scratches from my nails or my finger with my own blood as the ink. I don't want to ruin the room incase John finally decides to sell. As I pass by John, cold air flees his mouth, even with the heater running. I can teleport from one room to another. I can appear outside of the flat but it seems I can't leave. I'm attached to John. Wherever he goes, I join him.

His blog was virtually infested with dusty spider webs. He wouldn't even touch his laptop. There was nothing more to write. The Sherlock era ended. For that reason, the whole Sherlock craze subsided, like I never existed, like I never completed all those crimes, cases, investigations. Out of all the days, today, he finally powered up his dusty device and started a search. A certain case caught his eye. One with the headline of "Multiple suicides all over London: police are unsure if this is the work of a murderer or just a coincidence." The police are still investigating and recommends that citizens to stay inside my arse. Are Lestrade and the police still slacking off? They should have learned by now. They really did need my help. Where would they be without out me? From the research John picks up, it appears none of the victims ever had any noticeable signs of suicide nor were any of them related. The victim leaves a prewritten location of where they died in their own handwriting. Each one died from a different method: hanging, drowning in lakes, jumping from high buildings, and guns shots. Most of them were gun shots.

"John, why the sudden interest in a case? You haven't been on the field in months," interrogated inspector Lestrade.

"Because this one would be the perfect brain-scratcher for Sherlock and the best way for me to get back into this. Besides, you always needed Sherlock's help for all your difficult cases and I'm the next best thing," barked John.

"I know that but you can't just but in. This is strictly a business matter. We can't have the public in on this. My superiors will kill me"

"Just get me on the mission the same you would get Sherlock"

"Alright. Fine. You better get us some answers"

"I will"

All of the autopsies and file reports were fully analyzed, twice. John wanted to get the job done perfectly. Maybe not as quickly as me, but just without a single mistake. He talked to several witnesses and family members. Similarly, all have seen the victim with a stranger within the past week of their murder. Every stranger was different in appearance and height but all had a striking tattoo on different parts of their bodies. From the sketches, it was 8 arrows pointing in all directions topped with a circle. All searches show that this is a variant of a symbol of chaos.

Outside, the sun sank and the moon rose. John was in the office looking for matches for the tattoo. Lestrade walked in with coffee for John.

"John, Take a break. Here, some coffee."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry about Sherlock."

"There's nothing for you to apologize for."

"I know but you don't have to beat yourself up for what happened. It's not your fault."

"Then why does it feel that way!"

"John we all have to move on someday."

Those words, _move on_. They're all too familiar to John. They can't see that moving on isn't just that simple. It's a long, hard process, especially if it's someone or something special in your heart. Lestrade walks out, letting his words sinking deep into John's heart.

The next day John found a match. Adam Ferguson: went to jail once for robbing a bank, another time for the murder of a little girl. He was let out for good behavior. The tattoo was parallel to the sketch and John believed he was one of the killers. John ordered Lestrade to send people to stalk him and track Ferguson down. John wanted to know exactly who he talks with and when he talks with them. Only three men were sent. John didn't think that would be enough so he went with them. All day, John kept notes on where Adam went and all the people he talked to. One, Simon Reyes, was in a chummy conversation with Adam. But, the look on Simon's eye combined with the body language he displayed showed that they weren't very close friends. John thought so too. Before they departed, Simon started writing a note on a slip of paper as Adam is speaking. Adam swiftly absconds afterwards and Simon stood there looking at the note. At the end of the day, Adam Ferguson headed to an abandoned warehouse, away from society. In the warehouse were eight others with the same symbol of chaos tattoos. All had different appearances and heights. Multiple guns were in every member's hands. They dispersed and Adam entered the warehouse alone. John kept watch from a distance.

Twenty minutes later, Simon appears. He is quickly jumped by two of Adam's men and dragged into the warehouse. John moved up closer and stood by the door. Inside was Simon who was held down by the two men and struggling to escape. The men are too strong for a scrawny man like him. Around were some crates, boxes and a TV screen. Adam had a gun in his hand and stood in front of Simon. John could hear their conversation.

"Give us your money and valuables" Adam commands.

"No you just said we were going to gamble" confesses Simon.

"Yes, we're gambling with your life"

"No! Unhand me!"

"Well let's see how your wife thinks about this."

Adam switches on a small TV. On display is a young woman sleeping quietly in bed. Enters in is a tall man with a gun pointing to his sleeping wife.

"No Viola!"

"What we want is all the money you brought for our planed poker match and so that you don't go crying to the police, we need you to take this gun and shoot yourself right here."

"Please, don't hurt my wife."

"Now, you're going to quietly do as I say and pull the trigger."

Simon began emptying his pockets in front of Adam. Just as he was about to pick up the gun, John started moving into action. Stealthily he crouched over to the crates close by and began to load his gun. Unluckily, in the balcony above, one of the members spotted him. He picked up a metal bat and proceeded to the stairs. I couldn't do anything about it. I was just an apparition. Believe me. I tried everything I could to warn John. He was just too set on aiming at Adam. I couldn't even stop the guy from coming. The man crept up behind John. John turned around with a horrified look on his face. He raised the bat and-

"Sherlock, hel-"

Lying in a hospital bed was John, unconscious. He suffered multiple blunt hits to the head and won't be waking up anytime soon. He's still alive but he still got injured. He got injured because of me. I was just haunting his memories and dreams. He wished the day of my death was just a dream. Every morning he wakes up hoping it was just a bad dream and that I will be sitting there drinking coffee in my seat. He wants me tell him how he was all dreaming and that I will always be there for him. He wants us to be the criminal chasing duo we once were. But I have failed him. I can't do any of that. It's all in the past and he must realize that. Right?

Really. Was it that simple for him to fall? He should be able to sustain such sorrow. Did he really love me that much? Did he really cherish me so much that his heart broke into pieces? I don't understand these feelings I have right now. Why does it hurt so?


End file.
